X-Factor, once an interesting experiment, has become stale. The opening night is a real ordeal

Things change, things come and go. A quick survey of the TV channels at the start of the season makes this clear. We come across the opening episode of ‘X-Factor’, which once struck us as an interesting experiment and later as a solid programme, but instead the evening turns out to be an ordeal. After all, it is with a certain reluctance that we approach the new series of a programme that was once a novelty in a music world undergoing a fundamental reshaping, but which now, 20 years on, as Dumas suggested, immediately comes across as a worn-out concept. For it is now clear that the idea of talent shows and TV as a training ground has definitively had its day and is struggling to keep up with the dominance of social media – which, incidentally, has in the meantime also become a bore for almost everyone. So we are in for an exploration of television’s prehistory, as we try to piece together where all those talents have gone that we thought we’d glimpsed, season after season, on the programme. The overwhelming majority have been consigned to oblivion, with very few exceptions and a few contradictions, but with the prevailing feeling that, in the end, they were all just honest bit-part players in a show that ran smoothly for a long time, until the formula and its repetition became glaringly obvious. Meanwhile, with a laboured show of enthusiasm, the show sets off again, with Giorgia looking tired and half-hearted in her role as the dignified presenter, and a panel of judges that is hardly worth getting worked up about: Paola Iezzi, Jake La Furia, Francesco Gabbani and Irama, who replaces last season’s star, Achille Lauro, who has wisely stepped aside.

And it is precisely this judging panel that could have done with a good dose of coaching: it goes without saying that they’re only there for the money and a touch of fame, but they ought to be contractually obliged to adopt less apathetic demeanours (and, if necessary, be given a decent script). Instead, right from the start, the quartet falls back on a trite interpretation of their roles: either they pose as ecstatic mentors of the contestant who has just moved them (there’s plenty of weeping in the new ‘X-Factor’), or they slip into the role of mocking critics, sending the less talented contestants packing, between a Gabbani-style variety-show quip and a snide remark from Iezzi. At this point, it is clear that the show’s survival rests entirely in the hands of the contestants—the girls in particular, if a prediction is required. In the meantime, the barrage of advertisements in which the preliminary auditions are immersed gives the viewer time to ask themselves: what on earth am I watching? A project that’s gone off the rails – a showcase of trembling unknowns, judged by a panel of uncharismatic types who are putting on airs? To carry on, we need reasons, the best of which remains the universal one: the emotional spectacle of the hopes and dreams of a gallery of young people, driven by a naive yet sincere ambition. That is no small thing, this parade of dreamers, is it? Certainly more compelling than the judges’ comments, who ought to remember that charisma comes before irony – and of which there is very little on show here.

In any case, from the first few episodes, the impression is that, on average, the contestants have high expectations but few surprises; many have a good voice, but few have ideas; shyness, reserve and a lack of daring seem to be the recurring theme. It is likely that a standard approach to participating in talent shows has now become widespread, one characterised by wisdom, grounded in modesty, the display of fragile emotions and unambitious musical repertoires, with a strategy reminiscent of that used to pass one’s A-levels unscathed. One predictable act follows another, often greeted by fleeting, exaggerated standing ovations. This pattern continues until a Roman pop singer named Harrison appears and rouses the audience from its torpor, seemingly armed with an unusual insight (co-writing songs with his philosophy teacher); unfortunately, the quartet of judges mocks him and sends him home. Fortunately, a better fate befalls a certain Danny, a classic singer-songwriter who reminds us of Zerocalcare and who, ultimately, turns out to be the highlight of the evening.

Then there’s the usual chapter on the ‘oddballs’ – those who hope to make an impression with their outlandish behaviour – who are soon given a good thrashing, and there’s no need to feel sorry for them, leaving the stage to the horde of karaoke singers, who simply regurgitate famous songs without anyone understanding why (is this a sign that talent is running dry, that we’ve scraped the bottom of the barrel, or that those with a solid project are starting to steer clear of this place?). “We grew up watching X-Factor,” say four likeable Arctic Monkeys clones as they introduce themselves. The phrase reminds us that we, too, grew up watching Sanremo, but at some point we stopped believing in it, realising that the world out there bore no resemblance to it at all. By getting lost in these musings, however, we risk overlooking Paola Iezzi, who’s persistently playing on the elegant double entendre that the handsome Irama has ‘two birds’ (“come to my place and I’ll show you my birds,” he says), and so it occurs to us that, despite the age statistics, on ‘X-Factor’ at this stage, you no longer get that taste of youth. And that is a mortal sin.